


An Equal Match

by Maryassassina



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryassassina/pseuds/Maryassassina
Summary: Two months after the Battle of Yorktown and the events following in its aftermath, Mary Woodhull decides to leave her husband and take her son with her. At an inn in York City, where she is to stay for the night on her way to her parents, she makes the surprising encounter of a man she had believed dead- Lt. Col John Graves Simcoe, who is just about to return to England. Respectively arrived at a turning point in their lives, they talk about past resentments, secret hopes and bitter truths and finally get to the understanding that they are not all that different after all...





	1. Chapter 1

_New York, December 1781_

Mary descends the creaking stairs and steps into the dim light of the inn's parlor.

It is one of those particularly cold nights in December shortly before Christmas, the scarce daylight fading early, the grey sky heavy with dark clouds ready to send icy showers of sleet against the window paines.

It is the kind of night for the family to move closer together in front of a warm, cozy fire in the fireplace, the room lit with candles and decorated with evergreens, tables filled with sweets and hot rum punch providing comfort against the cold and darkness outside.

This is how they would have had it at Whitehall at this time of the year, but the place she used to call her home is hers no longer, and neither is her husband- if he truly ever was.

His father, the man who had owned the house, is dead and Abe had had the brilliant idea ( one of many, as she thinks dryly- ) of giving his heritage away without even asking her. All the family she has left right now sleeps upstairs in the small bed of a rented room in a lodging house. Thomas, her six year old blonde-curled angel, her precious boy, her everything.

Abe had not even tried to keep her from taking their son with her, when she had told him she would leave him, and even though she is grateful for that, it is also telling in every way. He had only ever fought for all the wrong causes.

The thought of her soon-to-be ex-husband provokes the familiar feeling of bitter disappointment. Has there ever been a man who was so- incapable in every respect? Abe had turned from the worst farmer in the world to the worst spy almost seemlessly; and surely had he been the worst husband all along. She had tried so hard to be the perfect wife- pretty, cheerful, indulgent to all his flaws and shortcomings- but that had not kept him from seeking refuge in the arms of another woman. Throughout the war, she had done her best to make up for his countless mistakes and incapabilities- to"clean up his mess"all over again-but it had not earned her his respect, let alone his love.

Mary had once believed her love for her husband was strong enough for the both of them, but now she knows she had only tried to deceive herself. At their reunion in the rebel camp, she had really hoped for the chance of a new beginning. But instead of bringing his family into safety, Abe had insisted on partaking in the battle of Yorktown- as if the Continentals had such an urgent need for an unskilled private who would get himself shot at the very first opportunity. When she had found him later,lying half dead and bloodied all over in that field hospital, something inside her had died as well. And then, when he had finally taken her home, it was only for her to learn that he had promised to give Whitehall to Hewlett, should he succeed in killing their common enemy. That was the last straw.

It was then that it had occured to Mary, that for Abe, his family would always come in second place, that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, he would sooner or later do something stupid again and put all their lives at risk.

She could not let that happen. She knew he loved her and Thomas- as much as he could- but that wasn't enough. Not anymore.

However, a few years ago, she would have still stayed with him, would have endured everything, if only for lack of alternatives. But Mary is no longer the woman she was- or rather, the woman society had dictated her to be- Abe's constant failures had forced her to slip off the tight corset of traditional roles and expectations. She is now a woman who can take care of herself, a woman who would do anything to protect her son from harm. If for nothing else, she is grateful to Abe for that.

The part of her heart though, where her love for her husband had been embedded for so long is now a cold and deserted place. Whatever- _whoever_ \- might fill this emptiness again, she does not yet know and anyway, right now this is a question of minor priority. And even though she can't do anything about the odd numbness in the spot where her feelings for Abe had once been, she can very well do something against the cold- outside as well as inside herself.

 

The ghastly weather doesn't exactly invite to go out and thus the taproom downstairs is empty except for a middle-aged couple and their teenage son at one of the tables, likely transients like herself, bent over their bowls with barley broth, and a single man in a dark suit, who sits in the chair by the fireplace and reads a book, a bottle of sherry and a glass on the table next to him.

He sits with his back turned to her, but something about his large shape and the way his auburn mane curls in his bowed neck looks vaguely familiar. But that cannot be. The room is dark and her strained nerves are playing tricks on her.

"A drink," Mary tells the man behind the bar counter.

Her gaze flies over the lined-up bottles on the shelve as she tries to decide what she would like. The barkeeper, a gruffy, elderly fellow looks her over in her fine dress, now somewhat dusty and crumpled from a long carriage ride. "Ale?" he offers. Mary shakes her head. Tonight she needs something stronger than ale to fight off the cold.

"Madeira," she says, and as he wants to pour her a tiny liqueur glass, she quickly lifts her hand to stop him. "I think, I'll take the bottle."

The man behind the counter raises an eyebrow but Mary doesn't even blink. May he think she's one of those desperate women who try and drown their sorrow in drink, she no longer has to meet anyone's requirements. Besides, nobody here knows her, and if she wants to empty a whole bottle of madeira all on her own, she will fucking do that.

 

At the sound of her voice the man in the chair by the fireplace had turned his head in her direction, and when Mary turns around she finds arctic blue eyes staring back at her, eerily shining in the light of the flickering flames in the fireplace. Her mind has _not_ played tricks on her. But this is impossible. She must be looking at a ghost.

Mary flinches and grabs for the counter for balance, almost dropping the bottle of madeira in the process.

"Mrs Woodhull," the ghost says in the unmistakably, creepy, high-pitched voice she remembers so well.

He gets up and with two long strides he is next to her, grasping her arm to steady her. "What are you doing here? Are you -alright?" He looks down on her, surprised, genuine concern on his pale features, not in the least suspecting he could be the reason for her unease- as he never did, when she thinks about it now.

Stunned as she is, she allows him to lead her back to his place by the fireplace and sit her down in the chair across his own. He takes the bottle from her cold hands and pours a glass for her. "Drink," he demands. "You look as if you have just seen a ghost."

Still shocked- and likewise out of habit to do as the commanding tone of this voice demands-Mary obeys and empties her glass."Captain Simcoe," she says, when she is in control of her voice again. "I- forgive me, I- I heard you were dead."

A cold terror chills her to the bone. Panicking, she thinks of Thomas, sleeping in his bed upstairs. Has Simcoe come to take revenge on Abe through her now, or her innocent son? But no, that would be ridiculous. There's no way he could have known she would be here tonight-

"Lt.Colonel," he corrects her smoothly and refills her glass, seemingly unaware of her dread-or drawing the wrong conclusions from her reaction, which is just as likely. "As you can see- rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. But I have in fact been wounded at the battle of Yorktown and am now just about to return to England for further reconvalesence."

Mary presses her lips together in order to keep herself from bursting either into tears or hysteric laughter.

Against all odds- and all their efforts to kill him- Simcoe _lives_. It is inconceivable, but here he is- no ghost, but 6,3 of pale flesh and blood- or whatever it may be that runs through his veins. He had survived Caleb's shot, had survived the deep fall onto brickstones, when Abe had pushed him down the rail afterwards, had survived his evacuation on the Bonnetta, where Hewlett claimed to have killed him. Which means no less than that Hewlett had lied to them and gained Whitehall under false pretense. Abe had given away his only inheritance for nothing at all. What a sick, cruel joke.

Slowly, Mary breathes in and out, trying to calm her nerves.

In order to escape the observant stare from icy blue eyes she remembers so well and fixate on safer ground, her eyes flicker over the table between them, the book he had put down at her arrival. ( Poetry, who would have thought? )

Breathe in, breathe out. Everything's alright. He says he's going back to England.

So that's what the unfamiliar civilian outfit is about, the reason why she had not recognized him at once. Mary had never seen Simcoe in anything else but uniform, scarlet or forest green. The dark suit makes him look even paler than usual, the deep blue of his eyes and fiery red of his hair contrasting his skin tone even more.

Tentatively, she raises her eyes to watch him again. On closer inspection, he looks indeed like a man raised from the dead, or at least- a man still recovering from severe injuries- there are dark shadows beneath his eyes and a bitter line around his mouth that has not been there before. It is clear, he must have suffered, there's a subtle vulnerabilty in his features that makes him look more human than ever before. He may have survived, but not without great cost. The war is over and his side has lost.

"Forgive my curiosity," he interrupts her musing. "but I wouldn't have expected to meet you ever again- let alone here, in York City and" he darts a quick glance over the taproom as if he expected Abe lurking in the shadows with a knife in his hand. " - _all alone_?"

"Abe is not here," Mary says, then she takes a deep breath. "I left him."

She doesn't know why she tells him this, him of all people, she has not told anyone else about it yet, even her parents don't know the reason for her surprising visit. By voicing it, the action becomes more real, her decision more definite, and besides, Simcoe is likely the last person who would condemn her for it.

Simcoe lifts one of his oddly colourless eyebrows. "You left your husband?" he asks surprised in his curious high voice. "May I ask why?"

Mary takes another sip from her glass and carefully watches her counterpart's face but finds no malicious glee onn his pale features, only genuine curiosity. "You may, but I'm surprised you should," she says, her voice sounding more acid and bitter in her ears than she had intended. "Shouldn't you know better than anyone about his flaws?"

"Oh, certainly," the man across her replies with a touch of his usual sneering tone. "It's more that I never thought you would come to the same conclusion. May I speak openly?" Mary nods and he leans forward in his chair and looks at her intently. "To be honest, I never understood why a pretty and clever woman like you would bind her fate to a weakling like Woodhull, a despicable worm who betrayed his wife as easily as his King-"

His voice drops with contempt and Mary listens with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she is flattered depite herself that he calls her pretty and clever, and surely he is right about everything he says about Abe, on the other hand his smug tone irritates her. She _knows_ , she is beautiful and clever and she _knows_ she derserves better, she doesn't need _him_ to tell her that. What makes him think he is so much better- he, a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer? And how can he condemn Abe for adultery when he had clearly shown his own interests in the same married woman?

Mary frowns. "I believe, you weren't so immune to Mrs Strong's charms yourself," she snaps back. Simcoe bows his head and she notices with satisfaction how her words inflict a tentative blush creeping up his pale cheeks. "That I wasn't," he admits softly before he looks back at her, his pale blue eyes gleaming strangely. "But there's a difference. I didn't have my beautiful wife and son waiting for me in a cozy home. I was alone- no, I was _lonely_ \- and Mrs Strong indicated that my advances were welcome. They never really were, I know that now and frankly, I haven't thought of her in a long time. But you-"

He interrupts himself to take a sip from his sherry. Mary swallows. It is the strangest thing, to sit here and have a conversation, a _real_ conversation on top of that, with the man she had feared like no other- the man she had plotted to kill several times. It shouldn't feel so- _natural_ , but it does. Perhaps only due to the liquor and much to her own surprise- Mary notices that she is not afraid of the man in front of her any longer. No, it is more than that, she is even beginning to feel comfortable in his presence, something she would have never believed possible.

"But I?-" she encourages him to continue, but he shakes his head. "You will laugh at me." he predicts.

"No, I won't."Mary promises, astounished that Simcoe could even _consider_ her making fun of him- she would have never dared to laugh at him then and feels no desire to do so now.

He looks up and watches her in a way which can only be described as loving admiration- the kind of expression she had always ( and always in vain ) hoped to find on her husband's features upon looking at her.

"But you," he goes on, hesitantly, "Remember when I took up quarters at Whitehall after Hewlett's cowardly flight? When I used to share your meals with you and Thomas ever so often, in absence of your traitorous husband? I still treasure the memory of those peaceful hours-" He pauses and clears his throat, visibly moved. "There were times, " he goes on and his voice sounds much darker than before, almost dreamlike. "when I found myself phantazising, Whitehall would really be my home, that you and Thomas were _my_ family. It were those moments when my hatred for your husband grew even more bitter. Although inferior in every way, he had everything I had not- a cozy home, a loving family, a beautiful wife- "He twists his lips into a contemptous grimace. "and he didn't even care-"

Incredulously, Mary listens to this completely unexpected confession. Despite her promise, she almost _would_ have laughed. How could he possibly have indulged in phantasies of a domestic idyll, when at the same time he was a constant impending threat to all their lives? Had he never noticed the strained, anxious atmosphere in which those meals had really proceeded? Her efforts to stay calm and polite when all she wanted was to grab a knife and stab him in the eye? Sometimes, her nerves had been strung almost to breaking point and it had taken all the strength she had inside her not to scream-

"Silly, I know," Simcoe says softly, as if sensing her unspoken thoughts. "You must have hated me, too. Feared me, at least. I quite understand that. I may have seemed brutal at times- and certainly I have done some things I am not proud of in retrospect but I am no soulless monster. I would have never harmed you, let alone Thomas, you know that, don't you? And if you had been my family, I would have never allowed anyone else to harm you either."

His eyes search hers, earnestly asking for understanding, for reassurance and suddenly it occurs to her, that he speaks the truth. There had been countless opportunities for him to harm her or Thomas, should he have wanted that. He could have taken them hostage to blackmail Abe, just as Hewlett had after he had found out about his spying, he could have easily arranged a tragic "accident" happening to them in order to take revenge on Abe. There would have been nothing she could have done to hinder him, they had been helplessly at his mercy like the rest of Setauket...but he never had.

On the contrary, he had always been perfectly polite towards her, and exceptionally kind to Thomas, even if he had once more threatened to kill her husband just the other day. Richard had succeeded in convincing her that Simcoe had threatened her son, but that had been a lie, she knows that now. Thomas has never been afraid of Simcoe, when she thinks about it now, had searched his company even- perhaps with the infallible instinct of a child who knew who would protect him when it really mattered ? And had she not found him humming the "March of the Grenadiers" one day and briefly wondered who would have taught him that particular tune? She had been too distracted- too upset to give it a second thought then but now suddenly, with a new clarity, everything falls into place.

Simcoe had always despised Abe- he still does most likely, but he had never been a threat to her or Thomas.

"Yes, I know," she says softly. "I guess I always knew-"

She watches his eyes light up at her words, his forefinger unconsciously tapping a nervous drum roll against the glass in his hand. "Have you ever- ?" he starts hoarsely, tentatively.

" _No_ ," Mary interrupts him a little too quickly, before he can voice the words she anticipates.

 _Had_ she ever?

She watches him in the dim light of the fireplace, his large, imposing frame so unchanged and yet so different in this unfamiliar, dark plain clothes, that new, vulnerable look on his distinctive features, his unruly mane shimmering in all shades of autumn leaves from fiery copper to dark auburn depending on where the light of the flickering flames touches it.

He _is_ a handsome man, he always has been, but if Mary had ever thought about Simcoe in terms of attractivity, it would have certainly been overshadowed by the oppressing fear she had always felt in his presence. Lions were beautiful animals, too, but if you met one in the wild you would not waste a second thought on his beauty, you would _run_.

However now, on neutral ground, and no longer having to fear his claws and teeth, she has to admit that she is only too aware of it. She almost feels the desire to reach out and stroke his mane, let her hand run through his unruly curls down to the ugly scar where his right ear had been. He has not even made the effort to hide it, no; he wears it with pride like he would likely all his battle scars and instead of ruining his attractivity it only seems to add to his warlike beauty. Only that _she_ had inflicted this particular scar.

"Does it hurt still?" Mary hears herself whispering, the urge of touching the evidence for the one time her own inclinations towards violence had managed to overpower instilled noble restraint, almost unbearable.

He follows her gaze to his destroyed ear and shrugs it off, ever the hardened soldier, used to pain. "Sometimes," he replies flatly. "Not as much as other things."

Part of her wants to tell him about it, wants him to see her for what she really is, of what she is capable. How would he react? Incredulous at first, then hurt, angry? All of it, likely. But of what use would that be now? Mary no longer feels any desire for petty revenge towards him and certainly she doesn't want to reopen old sores -with unpredictable consequences.

All of this lies in the past now; Simcoe is not her enemy any more- if he ever really was-and whatever he must have experienced since the last time she had seen him had visibly changed him, just like herself.

 _People can change_ , Mary thinks with a touch of resignation. _Except for the ones who couldn't_. The war is over and they are both survivors; and both losers. No, she won't tell him about her role in the Culper Ring or her brief career as a sniper. He doesn't have to know, it is enough that _she_ knows.

Instead she lifts her glass and empties it, just to see him automatically refill it once she'd set it down. "So you're returning to England," she says, by way of switching the conversation to safer waters. "What are you going to do, now that the war is over?"

Her counterpart shrugs his broad shoulders. "There will always be another war," he replies and his voice sounds oddly sad. "And likewise, always the need of men with my abilities-but I haven't decided it yet."

He drops his gaze and absently lets his forefinger circulate around the brim of his glass. "Someone told me just recently, that all nature was a circle of creation and destruction. And that after so much destruction from this war- it was now time to tend the garden again. Who knows? Maybe I will find myself doing something else entirely in the future- become a gardener or," he twists his lips into a crooked grin. "start a family."

Mary finds herself smiling back at him. "Who knows," she echoes. "Whatever the future may bring, you have my best wishes, Cap- Lt Colonel."

"And you, in reverse, will always have mine," he replies solemnly and the warmth in his voice feels like a caress."And please, if you don't mind- call me John."

"Why, it's getting late," Mary says quickly, in a weak attempt to ignore the sudden heat that has taken control over her body as well as unwelcome- and highly inappropriate- thoughts of how this night might further process, should she give into the spell of the moment. "I should check on Thomas and then go to bed, a long carriage ride awaits us tomorrow."

She stands up and notices to her slight embarassment that she sways a little on her feet. She is not used to liquor and should never have drunk so much in the first place. "Of course," Simcoe nods. "I shall retreat as well,"

He rises from his chair and quickly reaches out his hand to steady her. "Allow me to escort me to your room, madam."

Grateful as she is for the strong, muscular arm to cling to, Mary feels herself blushing at the- although certainly unintended-ambiguity of his offer. But before she can even think of declining, he has already led her firmly towards the stairs.

The man at the bar darts them a suspicious glance- likely having the same reservations towards her companion's intentions- but then he quickly drops his eyes and continues to polish the glasses on his counter. Even not in uniform, Simcoe's physical presence seems to be enough to nip anyone's desire for confrontation in the bud.

 

They stop in front of the door to her room but instead of retreating to his own room, Simcoe remains frozen in place, conflicting emotions on his pale features. "Thanks for your help," Mary says, although she is quite aware how silly she must sound- she would have certainly made it to her room without his help, even in her slightly intoxicated state. "I bid you a good night- " she falters, then decides to grant him his wish- "- _John_."

It is fascinating to see how his eyes light up again by hearing her calling him by his Christian name, although he tries hard to maintain a straight face. "And you, too, Mary," he replies in a hoarse voice, tasting her name on his lips like a sip of good wine. "And I have to thank _you_ for a wonderful evening." Slowly, deliberately, he takes her small hand in his big, warm one, lifts it to his lips and breathes a small kiss on it. "I'm so glad about the unexpected pleasure of meeting you again and it is surely going to make my leave a happier one."

Mary nods and -feeling herself blushing anew- she quickly turns her face away to open the door. Simcoe turns to leave, but when she has opened the door to the sight of her son, still sleeping peacefully in his bed the way she left him, she finds him still standing behind her in order to catch a secret glimpse at Thomas in his bed, and when she turns around to him again she detects a wistful, tender smile on his lips.

A smile he immediately tries to hide when he sees her looking back at him. "Forgive me," he murmurs. "It's just- I just wanted-he has grown, but he hasn't changed, has he?"

"No," Mary smiles. "He's the best of all boys." And the one good thing his father has ever accomplished, she adds in her head.

"That he is, most definetely." Simcoe replies softly, tenderly then he straightens himself and shakes his head as if trying to rid himself of his emotions. "Goodnight, Mary. I shall not keep you any longer."

He turns and walks slowly across the corridor towards his own room and Mary's gaze follows his large back view until the door falls shut behind him.

 

She grabs the doorframe,closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and inwardly counts to ten.

When she opens her eyes again, Thomas is still fast asleep and every cell of her body still tingling with the reckless decision she had just made. Before she is able to come to her senses again- as she knows it would certainly happen once she would give it a second thought- she silently locks the door to her room and follows him to his.

It may be a daredevil thing to do, one she might regret afterwards, but Mary has deprived herself of too many things for too long.

Simcoe opens the door almost immediately after her first knock, as if he had anticipated ( hoped? ) that she would follow him, sensed her intentions before she had as much as admitted them to herself. Mary blushes deeply at the shameful thought of being so predictable.

She searches his face but finds no answers to her question, his expression is absolutely unreadable. A sudden fright of her own courage takes hold of her. What if she had completely misinterpreted his behaviour? What if he would reject her? No, impossible. She is so used to rejection from Abe that she automatically expects it from everyone else, that's all.

Simcoe opens his mouth, but before he can utter a word, a question, a doubt, she quickly reaches out and- gently, but firmly- holds one of her hands to his mouth to forestall any possible objections and the other, to his cheek, tentatively stroking the warm skin there, slightly prickling with stubbles. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch and she can feel his lips trembling against the hand over his mouth. Relieved, Mary withdraws it in order to pull his head down to hers and he obeys willingly.

She kisses him with a ravenous hunger that surprises herself, born from many years of neglection and loveless or-at the very most, dutiful- treatment. Taken by surprise or not, Simcoe surely reciprocates her kiss with equal fervour, and when they finally move apart in order to catch their breath, Mary instantly starts to untie the buttons of her bodice which has by then become way too tight for the hammering heart in her chest.

"Wait," Simcoe says and lays his hand over hers in order to stop her.

"Why?" Mary almost snarls and looks up at him, a fierce fire gleaming in her eyes. "Is that not what you want? Are you going to reject me now?"

Because if he did, Mary is sure it would be too much for her to bear. If he rejects her now, and if she had a gun, she would immediately and gladly shoot him again, and this time, at close range, she wouldn't miss.

He flinches slightly at her harsh tone and her wild-eyed stare. "No, " he replies softly in a fragile, raspy voice. "Of course not."

She can see him gulp as his admiring gaze flies over her, the milk- white skin of her throat and neck over the half- unbuttoned bodice of her dress, her flushed face framed by errant strands of soft, strawberry- blonde hair. "I want it very much."

His deep blue eyes search hers. "But what is it that you really want, Mary? Revenge on your husband? Is that it?"

Taken aback, Mary at first finds herself lost for words.

"Would it matter?" she then retorts.

Simcoe drops his gaze to the floor, avoiding her eyes for once. "I don't know," he says softly. "I could hardly blame you if it were so, and I would understand it, to be sure." He lifts his eyes up to hers again. "I admit, I would not much like to be used in such a way, but I would be at your service anyway."

Her mouth already opening to deny it, Mary closes it again.

Is he right? Is that what all this really is about? She searches her mind and quickly finds an answer. _No_. The reckless- and unthinkable until recently- decision to give herself to her husband's worst enemy, the thrill of a forbidden deed, may certainly add to her arousal, but it is not the cause of it. Abe has no place in this ( and how could he? having only ever used her as quickly and impersonnally as a chamber pot to relieve himself ) neither in her mind, nor in the unmistakable way her body reacts to the man in front of her.

"No," she says firmly. "This is not about Abe. Not from my side anyway. But I could ask you the same question. Do you want me only because I am- _was_ \- his?"

The way he stares at her incredulously shows quite clearly, that this thought had never crossed his mind. "No." he says.

Mary nods. "Good." she snaps. "No more words then. Now help me with that dress and let's do this."

 

His features light up, both aroused and slightly amused at the unfamiliar commanding tone coming from those sweet, rosebud lips, before he hurries to obey to her wishes.

He kisses her again until her lips are all red and swollen, and then he lifts her up with no effort at all and lays her out on the bed, like a ritual sacrifice on a pagan altar.

It all feels dreamlike, unreal.

Mary is almost stunned with anticipation, every cell of her body aching for his touch, aching to have him inside her, but despite his own evident need, he takes his time, removes her clothes and his own methodically and without unfitting haste, as if to savour every moment.

She feels vulnerable as she lies naked before him, exposed to his wide- eyed, hungry stare and finds herself half wishing he would come at her like the gory beast she had always expected him to be. But he doesn't.

Instead, he is surprisingly gentle, takes his time to explore and worship every part of her body like a dutiful servant in a temple, allowing her to explore and delight in him as well.

Without his clothes, he is even more imposing than before, an embodiment of brutal, warlike masculinity, from his broad shoulders and muscular upper arms to his broad chest, covered with a thick reddish fur and countless battle scars, down to his strong, hard thighs.

Mary has always been delicately built, while everything about her lover is unfamiliarly massive, grand, and it both frightens and arouses her how easily he could crush her if he wanted to, but the touch of his calloused hands is surprisingly soft.

He is eager to show her he is not just an animal, it occurs to her, eager to show her that she doesn't have to fear him. And he is also very eager to please her, even more than himself, and he does it with a reckless abandon that doesn't fail to have the desired effect.

No one had ever touched her like that- not even she herself and certainly not Abe- and she had never expected anyone ever would. At first she is embarassed, angry even, about the way he handles and manipulates her at his will and her instinctive, unmistakable reaction to it. Then she stops thinking, presses her eyes shut and simply dives into the feeling. And as the night proceeds, she finds ways to pay him back in kind.

 

Later, much later, in the aftermath of pleasure, Mary lies snuggled against the man beside her, her head resting on his broad chest, her fingers lazily brushing the thick, red fur on it. "I have to take back what I've said before," her lover murmurs against her ear between soft kisses. "Having met you again will make my leave harder, not easier, Mary Woodhull."

She smiles against his chest, inhaling his sharp, masculine smell. Never before has she felt so utterly pleased, so utterly satisfied and in accordance with herself and the rest of the world. Part of her wants nothing more than to stay like this, for all time, or at least- for the rest of the night- but she can't. Above all, Mary is still a mother who has to look after a child, only now- and all thanks to the man next to her- she has figured out that this is not- doesn't have to be- all she will ever be.

She lifts her head to meet his lips and breathes a tender kiss on it. "Thank you," she whispers and means it with all her heart.

Reluctantly but determinedly, she frees herself from his warm, comforting embrace, gets up and searches for her clothes. He watches her in silence, as she struggles to put her dress back on- as good as she can- and when she turns to leave, he opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again.

"I will never forget this," Mary says quickly, as if to forestall anything he might say which would break the spell and make all of this too real. "And I will never forget you."

She pauses, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Whatever the future may bring- I'm sure you'll find that one woman who is truly worthy of your love."

Then she lifts her chin and turns to the door, a woman at the height of her glory, a woman who would never again accept second best- a woman who finally knows what she wants and how to get it.


	2. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Mary and Simcoe spent the night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well- originally a second chapter was never planned but my sister, who is forced to read everything I write, demanded an alternate ending. ( And she usually delights me with lovely comments such as 'please no more Simcoe' so how could I possibly say no? )  
> So this is what might have happened if Mary and Simcoe didn't go their seperate ways after their night of passion. Written from Simcoe's POV. In extra length.  
> Includes Major Character Death, a great deal of wishful thinking on my part and lots and lots of pure, unadulterated kitsch. You've been warned!

Even before a hesitant dawn decides to illuminate another dull winter's day for the short interval between morning and early afternoon, he is up and busy with packing his things.

It is no use. Sleep wouldn't come, no matter how much his mind and his body, aching and exhausted from the efforts of giving the woman in his bed as much joy as possible, had told him he needed rest.

Whenever he had closed his eyes, the vivid pictures in his head, reminders of what they had done together, would keep him awake. He was afraid to fall asleep, only to wake up in the morning and find, it had all just been a dream.

And were it not for the faint whiff of her sweet scent still lingering on the sheets, and the touch of her small hands and soft lips he can still feel on practically every inch of his skin, he would have been convinced that it _was_ a dream, must have been one.

After all, he'd had this particular dream so many times before: Mary Woodhull, running into his arms after he had saved her from some danger or another, or simply out of need for the love that wretched husband of hers was unwilling or unable to provide- her delicate body in his arms, shivering not from fear but longing excitement for his touch, telling him inbetween fervent kisses and caresses that it had in truth always been him she wanted, desired, needed.

His love and care, his protection, all he had to give and would have gladly offered at the slightest hint of her interest...he would have done anything.

Anything to make her happy, make her happiness the sole purpose of his life.

It was no dream, could not have been one. If it were, it would have followed clearly defined conceptions from then on.

She would have left her husband-or even better, be freed from the unpleasant ordeal of a divorce by Woodhull's demise, preferably by his hands which tied the noose around his treacherous neck. They would have lived at Whitehall, of course, she, the lady of the house, respected and envied by Setauket's townsfolk and Thomas, who would grow up as his own son and himself, the glorious war hero, who would return into her warm, loving embrace after every victorious battle until, once the war was won, he would be able to stay at home for good and spend his energy on filling these walls with the cheerful laughter of the countless children that would follow as a testimony of their love.

 

However, those blissful dreams lacked the part in which she would just walk out the door after their first and only night of love, leaving him alone to his darkness and the demons in it, and continue to live her life without him as if nothing had happened, as if he had never even existed.

 

In the attempt to rid himself of his weariness he splashes icy cold water from the basin next to the bed in his face.

It is no use. It had not been a dream but it wasn't real either.

Tonight he would be on a ship back to a home he has never known, and his only companion for many nights would be the sound of the waves against the steady raising and lowering of the hull.

She probably regrets everything by now. She may have needed him last night but she doesn't need him now, that much he knows. Despite her fragile appearance, especially compared to his own impressive physics, she is so much stronger than he is. She doesn't need anyone. It is better if he leaves early, if he doesn't have to see her again before his departure. It would only be awkward and embarassing for both of them. It would hurt too much.

 

 

He limps down the stairs, heavily laden with his luggage and as silently as he can manage, assuming everyone in the house still asleep except for maybe its host.

But when he steps into the parlor, already reaching for his purse to pay for his expenses, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the woman and the little boy sitting at one of the tables over their breakfast porridge.

Apparently, Mary Woodhull is also an early riser and most likely she had the same purpose as he - to avoid an encounter. He drops his belongings and stares at the two of them, who have looked up at his approach and watch him now, Thomas with cautious curiosity and interest, his mother with an expression he cannot read but assumes it must be unease.

His intentions to steal away surreptitiously thus foiled, he swallows and walks towards them, suspiciously eyed by the grumpy man behind the counter. "Good morning Mrs Woodhull, Thomas."

He smiles at the boy who, carefully, returns it. "I'm surprised to see you up already," He lowers his voice when he looks at Mary. "You've been sleeping well, I hope?"

To his satisfaction, he sees a furtive flush creep up Mary's cheekbones. "I've been sleeping very well, thank you." she replies softly and politely. "And yourself?"

"Splendid," he hastens to assure her, although he has not slept a bit and can only hope the dim light of the parlor conceals the dark shadows beneath his blood shot- eyes, which clearly belie his words.

"I'm glad to hear that," Mary forces herself to a smile. She, in contrast, looks in deed well rested, her teint fresh and rosy, her eyes sparkling. "But I thought it better to leave early. We still have a long way before us. Thomas, say hello to Colonel Simcoe," she turns to her son.

The boy drops his spoon and raises his big, blue eyes to him. "Hello."

A warm feeling rushes through him and he finds himself smiling at the boy with helpless affection. "Hello Thomas. Do you...do you rememer me?"

Thomas frowns a little and chews his lower lip, uncertain. He keeps grinning like an idiot, trying hard not to show his disappointment. Of course, he doesn't remember. He has been so little and it was so long ago.

Unintentionally, he feels his lips move and start to hum the March of the Grenadiers. The boy's features light up and slowly he lifts his hands to clap along with the tune. He feels tears well up in his tired eyes and just barely suppresses the urge to lift the boy up and clutch him in his arms.

He looks back at Mary and catches her wistful smile. The melody dies down in his throat. "Mary, I..." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry. I wanted...it was my intention to be gone before..."

"Yes," Slowly she gets up and walks around the table until she stands in front of him, close enough for him to breathe her scent in. She looks up at him and sighs. "Me as well," she says softly. "I thought it best if I...if we... wouldn't-"

He is just about to grab her by the arms and pull her to him, regardless of the innkeeper who watches their every movement as he is well aware of. But then suddenly the door creaks open and blows in a gust of cool wind and he sees Mary's eyes widen in shock.

 

 

He spins around and blinks incredulously at the well-known figure of a small man in plain clothes with the inevitable woolen beanie on his head who materializes on the doorstep like a vengeful ghost from the past who has come back to haunt him at the worst possible moment.

To be honest, the "ghost" looks as shocked as he is at his sight, if not more. He stares at the scene unfolding before his unbelieving eyes- his wife and son in a cozy get-together with his most hated enemy, an enemy he had believed dead on top of that, and his mouth opens and closes, unable to utter a sound.

The door falls shut behind him, and the innkeeper puts the glass he was just about to polish down on the counter and leans forward in anticipation of a suspenseful break in his dull morning chores.

Abraham Woodhull finally manages to regain control over his voice. " _Simcoe_ ," he gasps out and it sounds like a curse. "What the hell-"

"Abe!" Quickly, Mary rushes forward and posts herself in front of him, as if her delicate body was able to hide his much larger frame from her husband, or, even more ridiculous, as if she intended to save him from him. "What are you doing here?"

"What _I_ am doing here? Why, looking for you, of course. Did you really think I'd let you get away just like that- with my son ?" her husband snaps. "But I think the way more relevant question is, what is _he_ doing here? And how is he even alive?" he adds in an unbelieving whisper.

He lays his hand on Mary's shoulder and gently pushes her aside, so he is able to face his adversary and stare down on him from his threatening height like so many times before. "As I said to your- _wife_ -before, rumours about my demise have been greatly exaggerated." he hears himself say quickly in defence of her. "Our encounter here was completely accidental. Which does not mean that I'm going to stand back should you dare threaten her- she left you, didn't she? She told me that much and honestly, it is the best thing she could have done-"

He feels Mary's cool hand touching his upper arm in order to stop him. "John-" she starts.

Abe stares at her, then back at him and snorts out an incredulous laugh. " _John_?" he repeats in an acid tone. "So, it is John now? Now that's-"

He reaches up, closes his eyes and wipes his forehead beneath his cap before he glares at his wife from narrowed eyes. "How long has this been going? Ever since then, back at Whitehall?" He shakes his head. " No- no, it can't be. Not after what you did-"

"Abe, please," he hears Mary plead. "It's exactly as he said. I never saw him again before last night, never expected to see him again either-" Her voice trails off as he catches her glimpse, silently imploring him not to push it farther, expecting him to participate in her stage-play of feigned innocence.

"You know what?" Abe says. "I don't even care. Really, I don't. Whatever you do is no longer my concern as you have made very clear. But you won't involve Thomas in this."

Mary gapes at him. "What do you mean by that?" she murmurs, her voice trembling.

"What I mean is that you will hand over Thomas to my care, of course," Abe says icily. "You will agree with me that your latest actions- or the company I find you in- denies you any right to raise our son. Thomas, come here!"

The boy hesitates and looks up to his mother, searching for understanding what is going on. This angry man in front of them who claims to be his dad and has only the best intentions towards him is visibly a stranger to him and has been for a long time. As long as he can remember he has heard his parents fight, has seen his mother cry so many times whenever he left her.

"He will do no such thing," Mary hisses. "You agreed that I could take him with me when I left, remember?"

" _On a visit to your parents_ !" Abe yells. "Not to a- _rendezvous with your secret lover_!" The man on the counter pours himself a glass of ale. This was really going to be interesting-

Mary puts her hands on her hips and faces her husband with a piercing stare. "You dare accuse me of adultery?" she snaps. " _You of all people_? You have no _right_ -"

Her husband shrugs it off. "As I said, I don't care. Do what you want. But leave Thomas out of this. Come here, son," he commands again and this time, Thomas, the good boy he is and always has been, gets up and starts to move towards his father.

"Good boy," Abe smiles at him encouragingly, before he turns his contemptious stare back at Mary. "I am his father. I have _every_ right. And especially if my loving wife decides to leave me to whore herself out to the enemy.The legal situation is absolutely clear on this and I should know, I have studied law long enough as you may well know."

 

 

He cannot hold back any longer. Even though he is well aware, that the woman next to him does not ask for his interference, most likely- and with some justification- even considers him the cause for this new, unforeseen trouble in her life even, he cannot allow this pathetic cartoon of a man before him to destroy her happiness for any second longer.

Almost involuntarily, his hand has reached for the gun in his belt and tightly clutches its handle. "You will do no such thing, Woodhull," he hisses. "You'd better leave now, while you still can. If I hear you insult Mrs Woodhull one more time, I promise you will leave this house in a casket."

The innkeeper rests his ellbows on the counter. "No fighting in my tavern!" he warns, doubtlessly worried for his furniture and tableware. "I'll call the city guards!"

Both men, short and tall, turn to him for a brief moment, then back to glare at each other. Woodhull, although visibly scared, meets his icy gaze relentlessly. "Stay out of this, Simcoe, I warn you. The war is as good as over, you have no army behind you and no means to intimidate me any longer and my family business is no concern of yours-"

"You're wrong," he retorts. "You just made it mine."

"I should have finished you at Blandford when I had the chance," Woodhull whispers, his voice shaking with hatred.

"You should have," he nods. "You still can. We still have a score to settle, you and I, and I'd be more than willing to give you another chance to finish it."

 

Abe hesitates and watches his adversary in the merciless early morning light. He knows he must look every bit like a weakened enemy, visibly still in poor health due to his barely healed wounds, not made any better by a sleepless night and the exhausting efforts of extended lovemaking, and his counterpart notices all this as well.

Slowly, he twists his rat-like features into a devious grin. "I would be careful if I were you," he scoffs. "I had some practice in shooting under Arnold and you are clearly not in full command of your faculties-"

"Deal, then," he says quickly, limps forward and reaches out his hand to him, ignoring Mary's cry of protest. "Any time, any place, whichever you choose, sir."

He can only hope, Woodhull accepts his challenge, after all he had been ready to fight for his mistress back then and this is about his _wife and son_. Not that he had ever shown great interest in them, but even a ferret like him must have some honour left in him...

To his great relief, Abe steps forwards and shakes his hand. "Setauket. Tomorrow morning, at nine. At the pond. Like back in the old days, eh?" he says with an ugly laugh. "You' re truly incredible, Simcoe, you know that? There you are, rushing to the aid of the entirely wrong woman once more. Well, I'll be there. But I doubt you will as well. You have no idea about the _lady_ whose interests you think you have to defend here. But I think, I'll leave it to her to enlighten you in detail."

He puts his arms around his son who still follows the strange adult behaviour around him with big, frightful eyes. "Come, Thomas. We should leave your mother and her knight in shiny armor alone for now. I'm sure they have a lot to talk about."

 

And with this, he shoves his son to the door and once it falls shut behind them, Mary sinks to the chair at the table, buries her head in her hands and bursts into tears.

He watches her helplessly- the adorable, passionate woman in his bed last night, the proud, beautiful queen who left his room afterwards is gone, reduced to a desperate, trembling, sobbing nervous wreck- and all this caused by a single performance of her hateful husband. If he had ever thought he didn't harbour the desire to kill Abraham Woodhull any longer, he knows now, he has never been so wrong.

 

Shaken by her outburst, and quite aware that he has his own share in it, he walks over to her and awkwardly lays his hands on her violently shaking shoulders. "Mary," he murmurs, his own voice breaking, "Mary don't cry. I will take care of it, everything's going to be be alright, I promise,"

He pulls her up and into his arms, where she continues to sob uncontrollably against his chest, and drench his shirt with her tears."I won't let him take Thomas away from you."

He lowers his head to her crown and bathes it in fervent kisses. "Everything will be alright," he repeats urgently. " I love you, Mary-"

 

"Love me?"

She lifts her tear-streaked face up to him with a bitter laugh. "Love me? How can you even say that? You don't know what you're talking about. Haven't you heard him?"

He silences her with a firm kiss. He isn't sure what she means, isn't sure if he even wants to know. All he knows it that he wants this to end, one way or another.

"No," she pulls away and shakes her head. "This is _madness_. All of this. I must return to him, it's the only way. Just let me go-"

 

"I can't," he says and when he says it, he knows it's true. "Not anymore. I thought I could, but I cannot, will not, let you go- not again-"

"Don't you _listen_?" she cries out and yanks herself free from his embrace. "You don't know me at all, John Simcoe! I'm not the woman from your- transfigured memories. I have done things- you have no idea-" her words turn into more violent sobs and he puts his arms around her again and holds her tight.

"Tell it to me, then," he says softly. "We'll have more than enough time to talk on our way back to Setauket."

 

 

The carriage buckles and jerks its way out of town and back towards Setauket and Mary speaks.

 

Her head is resting against his chest, with his arms around her. She has insisted on staying like this, not having to look him in the eyes while she talks, insisted that he must not interrupt her until she is done.

And she has a lot to say.

 

She tells him everything, starting with her arranged marriage with Abe, to whom she had been passed over like an unwanted piece of inheritance after his brother's death, not knowing her future husband had long- and irreversibly- given his heart to another woman.

Her speech halting at first, but becoming more fluently when she realizes he doesn't interrupt her with comments or questions as he promised, she tells him about her countless, as desperate as futile struggles to live up to her role as a dutiful wife in order to eventually win the affection of a cold, indifferent husband.

It is a story he already knows, a story she has told in court before what should have been Woodhull's deserved execution, but to hear it again now under these new circumstances makes his heart break for her anew, fuels his hatred for her husband even more.

 

And then she tells him of the fatal day when she found Abe's codebook.

Tells him about Baker.

About the decision she had made at this moment, a decision which could not be reversed and finally resulted in her active- if never fully accepted- participation in her husband's spying activities.

He listens incredulously, his arms around her tensing but she holds on to his upper arm, wordlessly imploring him not to say anything, to hear her out as promised. And he does, even though he no longer wants to.

 

She speaks of the day when he came to their cabin, after he had found the gun with Abe's initials on it, which Rogers had left behind on his flight.

He remembers the lie Woodhull had served him then, a lie concealed in a truth, how Rogers had found out about his affair with Anna and blackmailed him with it.

Remembers Mary's shocked reaction, her desperate tears and how much he had hated Abe then, both for his treason and for what he had done to his wife.

Remembers Mary in the saddle before him later, his arm around her delicate waist, when she had suddenly cried out and claimed she had spotted Rogers in the woods.

He had never been there, she tells him now, it was Caleb, and it was his boat the Rangers had found. He had planned to get her, Abe and Thomas into the rebel camp, a plan which he had foiled and thus forced her to act on her own.

 

Her words become quieter, halting, when she tells him how Richard Woodhull managed to convince her he had threatened Thomas. How desperate she was, frantic with fear. How much she  hated him.

And then she saw the rifle he had carelessly set aside in the hall before seating himself for the dinner she had prepared for him, and which- much to his disappointment as he clearly remembers- she declined to share with him.

He thinks he knows, what she is going to tell him now, but his mind refuses to believe it. Involuntarily, his grip around her arm tightens, as if to prevent her from going on, to warn her to say no more, but she does anyway.

She tells him how Abe had taught her how to shoot before. Tells him what she felt when she took the rifle and ran outside to hide in the woods.

Her mind had been all blank, she says, but her senses overly sharp, every fibre of her body concentrated on nothing else but the task that lay ahead of her.

 

To kill.

To kill _him_.

 

Oh, and the Ranger who had seen her and tried to convince her to return to the house. She killed him too. Slit his throat and stabbed him with his own bayonet, all over again, practically gutted him. And then she had raised the rifle and aimed at him at the upper window.

The sound of the shot and the breaking of glass.

The wild triumph rushing through her when she realized she hit her aim and he hit the floor.

It had felt wonderful, she whispers in a soft voice, almost absently. Better than anything she had ever felt before. All her life she had felt so weak and powerless, she tells him, towards her husband and his father, the woman who had stolen him from her, the British occupants who were threatening to destroy her family, her home, her whole world- and all of them pooled and incarnated in his person, the greatest threat of all- or so she had been led to believe.

But when she had pulled the trigger she had felt strong. Powerful. Alive.

She had enjoyed it. Had felt no regret, not in the least. And she still doesn't. She was a mother who believed her child in danger. She would do it again any time.

 

 

He remains silent, not so much because she asked him to, but because he knows he would be unable to utter a single word, as much as his mind is unable to grasp what he just heard.

It cannot be. Impossible.

For a moment he wonders if she just made up this hair-raising tale to deter him from his plan to duel it out with her husband.

It is simply incredible.

 

And yet, there has been a brief moment even then, a tiny fragment of a second only, after the shot, when he ran back inside and saw the rifle leaning against the wall, and even if he then told himself it was only concern about her safety that made him climb up the stairs and open the door to the bathroom-

The sight of her in the tub, her slender, graceful shape, the soft, rosy skin he could not fail to notice even in his frantic state of shock and pain, only conceiled with a towel she had hastily clutched over her breasts- her eyes wide with fear- of _him_ , as he knows now, always of him-and he had asked her if she was alright and even felt vaguely offended that she didn't ask it back, when he was visibly so gravely wounded-

 

How was it possible that she- this petite, fragile person, should have been capable of such a violent act?

What did he expect she would confess to him anyway?

Some small, pathetic acts of rebellion against the unwelcome intruder in her house? That she allowed his socks to disappear in the laundry, poured itching rosehip powder into the collar of his jacket or castor oil in his morning tea?

He doesn't know. But certainly not that she shot at him in cold blood and with the intend to kill.

 

"I had just stepped into the tub as you walked in," she explains with a grim smile. "My blood-stained clothes were hidden under the closet, and if you had taken a look to the left, you would have found my bloodied hand print on the wall next to the door."

 

He wishes she would just stop talking. Can she not feel his whole body shaking with tension, his heart pounding frantically in his chest against her head, shattered to pieces more and more with every word she says?

But she goes on, mercilessly. "Can you even imagine how frustrated I was?" she snorts out a mirthless laugh. "All these years, all throughout the war, I have wanted you dead. After my failed attempt, when Abe told me of his plans to join Arnold's legion to get the chance to kill you, I implored him not to miss. And I told Caleb the same, when he rode off to Blandford to save Abe. But you simply wouldn't die! No matter what we tried- even Hewlett failed in the end-"

Her voice trails off and after a while he notices from the shaking of her shoulders that she is crying now, silently sobbing against his chest. Almost automatically, he feels the urge to console her, to stroke her back, lower his head to hers and kiss her head, but he can't, he is still paralyzed with shock, and so he just keeps holding her and waits for the flood to cease, while his heart is aching and breaking in his chest.

After a while, she has pulled herself together again enough to continue, even though her voice is very quiet and raw from crying and he has to struggle to understand her, although he is not even sure if he can bear to hear any more.

"And then," she says very quietly, "Then I met you again and you were not dead and I am so happy about it. Because I know now, it was never _you_ who was my enemy but the man I always thought I had to protect from you. And then, when we- last night, when we made love, and for the first time in years, I was able to feel again like I felt that night when I shot you. Strong. Powerful. Alive."

She smiles against his tear-soaked chest and he rathers feels than sees it. "The happiest and most intense moments of my life- apart from Thomas' birth- both with you. One of them in hatred, and one in love, but the feeling was exactly the same. Isn't that strange? "

"Not at all," he hears himself say, unsure if he is allowed to speak now or if she even expects an anwer to her question.

"Love and hate are in fact not as different as we tend to think. I for my part believe, it is even impossible to feel the one if you are not able to feel the other."

She lifts her head and looks at him for the first time. "Even for the same person?" she asks. "Even at the very same moment."

he says with a sad smile.

Tentatively, she returns it. "Do you hate me now, then?"

 

He sighs. Does he hate her? How could he? She had lied to him, tried to kill him even and this knowledge hurts, but was it her fault?

She had acted in the belief that he was her enemy, that he intended to hurt her child and had fought like a lioness to protect her cub, an entirely natural and understandable instinct.

It is not her he hates, but the men whose lies had forced her to do such a thing in the first place. Woodhull and his father, this conceited, self-rightous, vile magistrate. Well, he is dead now- if not by his own hands then at least by his intervention- and his poor offspring would soon be as well.

And if she had enjoyed it, well- how could he condemn her for a feeling he knows only too well?

 

"No." he says at last. "I'm not exactly pleased to hear all that, as you can imagine, but I understand you. And had I been in your place, I would most likely have done the same."

And he means it. He is still shocked, yes, and upset, but he understands her, he really does. He has no idea, if he would have been able to see things from her perspective then- or from anyone else's for that matter- but he can now. When and how had that changed? He doesn't know, but it's true nonetheless.

He hears Mary release her breath. "I don't know why," she says softly and in wonderment. "But somehow, I knew you would understand."

 

He looks out of the carriage window and sees, the light is already beginning to fade, and the first shades of an all too familiar place are beginning to materialize in the distance. A place he had so disgracefully been forced to retreat from after Woodhull's failed hanging, a place he never thought he would set foot in again.

Maybe it has to be this way. He had thought the war was over for him, but it is not, cannot be over, as long as his ultimate foe lives. He cannot leave the Continent and this business unfinished.

"We're there," he says softly. "Strange, it doesn't feel like home any more."

"Neither does it for me," Mary whispers.

"Very well then," he says briskly. "I'd say I do what I have to do, you get your son back and then we can both leave forever."

Mary returns his words with an incredulous stare. "You- you still want to do this? After all I told you?"

"Of course. Even more so now, in fact." He raises an ironic brow. "Unless you plan to do it yourself, the skilled sniper you are? Why, that would be quite unfortunate for I've been looking forward to this particular encounter for so long-"

Mary shakes her head and gives an annoyed snort. "John, that's not funny. And I mean it, you don't have to do that-"

"And I mean it, I have to." He frowns. "Are we having doubts now? Don't tell me you really want to go back to him-"

"No," she says quickly. "I don't. I just-" her face curls up into another tearful grimace. " _I just want my baby back_."

"And you will," he promises and pulls her to him again. "What if he gets the first shot? What if he kills you?" she murmurs against his chest.

"Oh please," he scoffs. "I may not be fit, but I seriously doubt Woodhull's shooting skills have improved that much since Blandford."

He takes her face in his hands to make her look at him. "I will win Mary, no matter who has the first shot. And this time, I will _kill_ him. You know that don't you?"

She swallows her tears and nods and he seals his promise with a fervent kiss on her trembling, salty lips.

 

 

They spend the night in one of the deserted cabins out of town Mary knows.

It is rather uncomfortable, especially in the middle of winter, but he has no desire to take quarter at the tavern, which is still- or rather again- run by Anna Strong after she reunited with her husband, as Mary informs him, just like in the old days- and they can hardly stay at Mary's old home as long as Abraham is there and Whitehall is no longer available since it has been passed from Abe to Hewlett and then to Dejong, something he can only shake his head about in astounishment.

 

He gathers wood for a fire, until the cabin is at least warm enough that they no longer see their own clouds of breath in the air, and then they wrap themselves up in whatever sheets and blankets they can find and share the supplies of bread, cheese and wine they have bought at the inn in York City before leaving, along with the brandy from his canteen.

"Cozy, is it?" he groans as he stretches his long, sore legs in front of the fire and takes a deep sip from his canteen before he reaches it over to her. "Almost like in the field."

"I've seen worse," Mary says and he thinks that there are still many things he doesn't know, about her time in the rebel camp to name but one. But first things first.

She takes a small sip of the brandy and grimaces at the taste, but he urges her to drink more. "Are you planning to make me drunk, Lt Colonel?" she mocks.

"Only for you own good, of course," he says with wide, innocent eyes, taking up her mocking tone. "I fear the nights can get quite cold out here." As if to emphazise his words, a heavy snowfall sets in and quickly covers the windows in white.

"Ever the gentleman," Mary scoffs and he gives her a wicked little smile. "I wouldn't count on it, madam." he says in a low voice." I think I have never seen you drunk before last night and truth be told, I quite liked the effect."

Mary drops her gaze and to his secret pleasure, he watches a deep, rosy glow creep up her cheeks and despite his weariness after a sleepless night and an uncomfortable carriage ride he feels an unmistakable, longing desire rise up inside him.

Does she even know how adorable she is, his cunning little apprentice spy and almost-murderess?

"And I'm afraid there's only one bed in here," he goes on airily. "I would of course offer to sleep on the floor, but my injured leg still hurts, not to speak of my back and I suppose you wouldn't want me all tense and shattered when I'm going to battle in the morning-"

Mary blushes even deeper and quickly takes another draught from his canteen. "That would be too cruel, wouldn't it?" she asks in a flat voice and he nods eagerly. "In deed, it would. And especially given the possibility I might not return- well, you said it yourself, he may have the first shot,"

"Stop!" Mary lifts her hand as if to slap him and he catches it and holds it to his face, closes his eyes and leans into her touch as she slowly starts to stroke his unshaven cheek with trembling fingers.

"Do you really think you have to coax me?" she whispers and he opens his eyes and sees her face only inches away from his own, her wet, deep blue eyes, slightly opened rosy lips and her delicate features melting with the same desire he feels.

"You're so beautiful" he murmurs helplessly. "I can't even tell you much I adore you."

"Show it to me then," she whispers and he pulls her to him and into a long, passionate kiss before he lifts her up with no effort at all and carries her over to the bed.

 

 

The next morning finds them still cuddled up, their limbs entangled in a loving embrace.

Despite his efforts to give her again as much pleasure as he humanly could, exhaustion and sleep deprivation eventually triumphed and granted him much needed rest.

They don't speak as she pokes the fire for a makeshift breakfast of yesterday's remains, while he sits on the bed and meticulously cleans his weapon.

He doesn't know if Woodhull will bring a second, he has none, and he can hardly ask Mary so he will have to go without. He doesn't like it, he won't have a witness if Woodhull tries to play against the rules of which he thinks the weasel perfectly capable, but it doesn't matter in the end.

Abe Woodhull is going to die today. He should not, must not, have any doubts about his mission.

But Mary does. "You don't have to do this," she says again as he gets up, puts the pistol in his belt and takes on his coat when the time is near.

"And I told you I must," he repeats, a little irritated that she cannot just wish him luck. "It has to be done, I thought we were both agreed on this."

She hangs her head. "It will still be murder," she whispers.

"No. It will be long overdue justice."

"I know," she sighs. "I know. And I want him gone, I really do but still- it feels so wrong after all this time I have tried to keep him alive. And after all, he is Thomas' father-"

He walks over to her and takes her face in his hands. "Go home and get Thomas," he orders. "As soon as it's finished I will return and meet you there."

She looks down and bites her trembling lower lip. "What if you don't?"

"I will," he says firmly. "I will end this now and for good. And Mary, I want you to promise me something."

He lifts her chin up to him and makes her look him in the eyes. "When I return, I want you to come with me, you and Thomas. I cannot do this if I knew it would mean to lose you again."

Her tearful eyes grow wide. "Come with you? Where?"

He smiles. "To England, of course. As you said, Thomas needs a father. And I- I need you with me, the both of you. It was what I have always wanted, and never more than now."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "How can you want that after all you know about me now?"

"Because I love you," he says simply. "I loved the woman I thought you were then, and I love the woman I now know you really are. I love you. Will you promise to come with me Mary? Will you- will you be my wife?"

"Yes" she says through her tears.

"Yes," he echoes and laughs in utter relief before he pulls her to him and covers her face with fervent kisses. "Yes."

 

 

Just this word from her lips, this one syllable, these three little letters carry him on his way to the field of honour like angels' wings. He feels neither worries nor fears, neither pain from his barely healed wounds or his sore legs and back, nor the icy cold wind in his face, not even the ground beneath his feet. " _Yes_."

And then he reaches the pond just like he did after what must be five years now.

Five years but it feels like an eternity ago, in another life.

Five years and it feels like yesterday.

 

Everything is as it was, from the quiet, frozen pond in the early sunlight up to the soft snowfall on the trees around it.

No, not everything. Woodhull is already there, waits for him leaning against a crippled oak tree and he has in deed brought a second- not _Baker_ , of course, Baker is long dead- and by Woodhull's hand as he now knows- but some fellow he has never seen before, apparently a farmer like himself.

A brief surge of relief washes over him. Part of him has not believed Woodhull would really come, the coward he is and always has been, or even worse, that he had in short term managed to round up some of his rebel friends to help him assassinate him. But no, he is alone, apart from his second who doesn't look like he is able to make trouble, although overall not too happy to participate in an illegal duel.

As he approaches his counterpart, Woodhull looks up at him and nods in greeting, an expression of grim determination on his narrow face. For a second he feels a tinge of reluctant respect for his long-time enemy.

"I admit, I underestimated you, Woodhull," he says with a mockingly raised brow. "I was so sure you wouldn't come."

"What you obviously underestimate is my desire to kill you, Simcoe," Woodhull retorts through clenched teeth and he gives him a faint smile. "I understand. I feel the same towards you. But you know this won't happen, don't you?"

"Woodhull shrugs. "I have been lucky before."

"Oh yes. Way too often, if you ask me."

"The same could be said of you."

"Well, then. Let's settle this once and for all."

Woodhull nods. "Parker here will check the weapons. Since you have no second of your own you will have to trust in my choice." "Of course."

 

The farmer referred to as Parker checks his gun and Woodhull's, nods and gives it back to them. He then starts a halting speech about the duel rules but he interrupts him with a quick gesture. "I don't think there's need for this, good sir. We have both been here before."

The man looks at Woodhull and at his agreeing nod, produces a coin from his pocket. "Head is Mr Woodhull," he explains. "Tail is his challenger, Lt Colonel Simcoe."

The coin flies up in the air and blinks in the dim sunlight as it turns a few times before the second catches it on the back of his right hand and puts the palm of his left over it.

The man removes his hand and he feels the corners of his mouth slowly curl into a smile. "Seems your luck has left you along with your wife," he sneers.

For a moment it looks, as if Woodhull would take to his heels and run. But then he gets a grip of himself and nods.

The two men, one tall, one ridiculously small in comparision, stand again back to back as they did five years ago.

He feels he should say something, something important, something sarcastic, he doesn't know- but to his own surprise, what comes out are the same words he said before.

" _She's mine_." he whispers. And this time, his heart rejoices in the fact, that it is true. "She already said yes."

"Over my dead body," Woodhull spits back and he smiles. "In deed."

 

The farmer made makeshift second for a day begins to count and they start walking.

When he turns around, raises his arm and aims, he notices that his opponent has turned sidewards as he did the first time, in order to present him an even smaller target, as if this was even possible. No matter. His ear may be gone and his leg shattered, his internal wounds barely healed but his eyes are still as good and clear as they were and his arm and hand do not shake.

He raises the gun and aims.

 

And then, to make the deja vu experience complete, he suddenly hears the creaking of wood as someone approaches them in a frantic hurry.

A woman, her skirts heaped, her hair loose beneath her cap, her eyes wide and cheeks red from the frost and the fast run.

He blinks and looks again and then he realizes it is not Anna Strong he sees, but Mary, and he feels the heart in his chest sink, heavy with the weight of a sad certainty.

So she has made up her mind after all.

Has come to rush to her husband's aid, to once more save him from his deserved end at the very last moment.

She won't let him kill him. She does not love him, she never did and never would, how could he only for a second have believed it could be otherwise? It had all been nothing but a dream after all and now she has finally come to her senses.

First Anna, now Mary. It will all happen again.

She will cling to his sleeve with tearful eyes and beg him not to do it, beg him to throw away his shot and he knows with utmost certainty that he will do it, as he would do anything she might ask of him.

And then it would be Woodhull's turn and he wouldn't turn sideways but present his full, broad frontal view to him as he always does and with some luck glady receive his bullet.

 

And thus he would lose everything in the end. The duel, the war, Mary, his life, everything.

 

His heart breaking in his chest, he looks at Mary, awaiting her intervention, her last act of treason, his death sentence.

"Mary," he hears Abe's relieved gasp, doubtlessly expecting the same as he does, that she came to save him as she did so many times before and always would.

But Mary does not move. She just stands there with her arms crossed and looks wordlessly from her husband to her lover with his arm outstretched, his gun still aimed at his adversary and her eyes are wide but dry, the expression on her face unreadable.

And then she opens her mouth, but she does not scream, does not cry, does not beg, and her voice is as calm as the snow that falls on the pines around her, and just as cold.

 

"Don't miss." she says.

 

He pulls the trigger.

 

His gun gets off with an ear-battering bang , starts a few ducks on the pond and makes them fly up and flutter off towards the woods with loud, angry cackling.

Then Parker's shocked, muffled cry and a loud thud as the body across him falls backwards and slumps to the frozen ground.

 

Then silence.

 

 

 

 

He has put a provisional engagement ring on Mary's finger but the voyage to England is far from a happy honeymoon, with heavy sea almost every day and his poor darling, who has never been on a ship before, crouching over a bucket in the corner of the cabin most of the time, retching and vomitting most pitifully.

He doesn't like ships much better and his injuries still cause him pain but since Mary is clearly suffering even more it is up to him to provide for Thomas' entertainment during the long, dull days below deck. He tells him stories and reads to him from his books, teaches him soldier songs, carves small wooden figures for him to play with and cradles him on his knees when he's tired.

Thomas doesn't talk much and not once has he enquired about his father, but one day he will and he has no idea what he will tell him then.

As two weeks pass and Mary doesn't get better he begins to worry about her health. He wonders anxiously, if her sickness might have mental causes, might in fact be fear- or even regret. She assures him it isn't so but he worries anyway.

What they both cannot know, and will learn only much later, is that Mary's continuing discomfort proceeds not so much from naupathia, not even sorrow, but much rather from the fact that in their very first night together, he had achieved the physical masterstroke of conceiving what should become the first addition to their small family.

 

 _His family_.

He still cannot believe it.

 

At night, when there is no sound but the quiet creaking and squealing of the ship and the steady rolling of the waves against it, they lie on the small, hard, uncomfortable plank bed, her back to him, his arms around her, and even when she begins to feel a little better there is barely a chance for intimacies because of Thomas, who had begged to be allowed to sleep in their bed in their first night at sea and insists on doing so from then on- a small, warm bundle cuddled up between their bodies like the cutest chaperone imaginable.

He knows he will have to break him of this habit rather sooner than later but he cannot bring himself to do it just yet, it makes him too happy and after all, his arms are long enough to reach around the both of them.

When they are lying there like this, Mary and Thomas fast asleep in his arms, only now and then sighing and mumbling in their sleep, he lies awake and thinks of all the things the future might bring, makes and breaks plans all over again, his mind spinning endless circles on whatever might await them in this country that is as strange to him as it is to them and if they will even like it there.

He still has no idea what he will do, where they will live-and on what- and all these uncertainties trouble him greatly but then again, he knows it doesn't matter at all.

 

He already is at home.

**Author's Note:**

> The real Simcoe indeed left America for reconvalescence in England in December 1781, but it is of course not very likely he met any member of the Culper Ring again before his departure.  
> As for Mary,the show left no doubt about her further fate- she would live and die in Setauket with her husband, always staying second choice until the end- a fate I could never quite accept, so this is my attempt on giving her ( and Simcoe, who deserves all the love he can get ) a better ending.  
> I was reluctant to post this at first, given all those awesome Simcoe/Mary fics already up but oh well, I wrote it, so here it is;)  
> Hope you enjoy!


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